


Stranger That I Used to Know

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Dean, Amnesiac Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: Sam and Dean wake up in a hospital without memories of their life before and no clues except for each other. Together, they try to hunt down the creature responsible for their memory loss, but what they find along the way might be even better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My second amnesia!Dean repost. This was written for [spn_j2_xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) in 2013 and was originally posted [here](http://infatuated-ink.livejournal.com/88523.html). More notes on LiveJournal.

He comes to in a white room. Blinks his eyes a few times at a white ceiling, then sits up just enough to see white walls, white floors. He's lying in a white bed. It might almost be calming, if not for the one spot of color in the room, the one thing interrupting the neutral white around him.

The hair swims into view first, long brown down to wide shoulders. Then the skin, tan but pallid, as if whoever this is has been sick. The face comes into focus last: sharp, cat-like hazel eyes, a birthmark he gets the weirdest urge to put his mouth on, and an expression that is anything but neutral.

Whoever this is sitting up by his bed—his hospital bed, he realizes, it must be a hospital—looks worried half to death, and instead of finding something comforting to say, all he can think is that he'd like to feel the scratchy stubble on this guy's face rub against him in a kiss. He wonders if maybe he's had that thought before, because it feels like an instinct.

"Thank god," the guy says after a few seconds. "You're awake."

Whoever he is, this stranger, he sounds so damn relieved. It's too bad what has to come next.

"Who are you?" he asks.

The face in front of him falls. He doesn't know if it's hurt or disappointment, and he dodges his eyes away before he can figure it out. Something about looking at this face makes him feel like his heart will break. He doesn't like it—or he does, too much, like an addict staring at his next fix.

"I was hoping you could tell me," the man says. "I don't remember."

For a second, he wants to laugh at how absurd that sounds. Then, just as the laugh is about to leave him, something horrifying claws up inside of him, and instead of laughing, he starts to panic. He doesn't know who he is either. He doesn't know anything.

He stops and takes a deep breath, and a few wispy scenes come into his mind. There's a tall man with a beard tossing him a football. A nice blonde woman who makes him sandwiches and kisses the top of his head. He thinks there might be a baby. It's warm and comfortable, these memories, but they're a child's memories. He looks down at his hands and what he can see of his body; he's not a child. He can't remember a damn thing past what must be the age of four or five.

"Dean," he says after some time. The woman in the faraway memories calls him that. "I think my name is Dean."

"Yes, Dean," the man says, his voice soft around the name, like it means something to him. "Yes, that's your name. I think mine is Sam."

"Sammy?" He thinks he remembers Sammy. Maybe?

Apparently not. "No," Sam replies, sounding a little annoyed. "Just Sam."

"Oh," Dean looks away, "Sorry. I thought I remembered—"

"What?" Sam sits up. "What did you remember?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Sorry. I mean, I remember being a kid a little bit. That's it."

Sam sinks back into his chair, and Dean feels guilty, like it's his fault Sam's upset and it was supposed to be his job to prevent that. All he did was be honest.

"That's more than I've got," says Sam, scratching his head. "I've been racking my brain for almost a day now, but there's nothing."

"How'd you know your name's Sam then?"

Sam looks up, shrugs. "I just knew it, you know? I mean, I should at least know my own name, right?"

It all comes out calm and clear, but for some reason, Dean thinks he's lying. He wants to ask Sam why he'd do that, why he still bothers to lie when he knows Dean will be able to read it in a second. But Sam doesn't know that. Dean doesn't even know that _he_ knows that. It's like a thought from another life, bubbling up. But it feels like instinct, just like that urge he'd gotten to kiss Sam earlier, and Dean's not an idiot. They must know each other. Whatever happened to their memories, it must have been the same thing.

 _Hunt_ , says a voice in his head. _This is a job, and you can figure it out._

That doesn't make any sense to Dean, but he sure as hell wants to piece it together. "Why did you think I'd be able to tell you anything?"

Sam licks his lips and looks toward the window on the wall by Dean's bed. "I've been awake for almost a day now. I've asked some questions. Taken a few tests. I was supposed to alert the nurse if you woke up, but I wanted to talk to you first. They told me we came in together. Sporting almost the exact same injuries, but no blows to the head. Nothing to explain why we would be—"

"Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates?"

Sam's face is a mix between annoyed and amused. It's a fond expression, and it feels familiar to Dean. There's a soft warmth in his chest, the exact opposite of the guilt he'd felt for disappointing Sam earlier. Apparently, making Sam happy makes him happy too. "I wasn't going to put it that way, but sure."

"How do you think modern medicine is going to explain me not knowing anything about my life but being able to call up Adam Sandler movies without trying?"

"You probably didn't have much of a social life," Sam answers with a smirk.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You got the joke, dumbass. What does that say about your social life?"

It's obvious enough what it says: that their lives were tangled together somehow, and Sam doesn't waste his breath saying it.

He's quiet for a long time, but finally he looks up at Dean. "This is going to sound crazy," he starts, and Dean grins, because, really, what could sound crazy to either of them right now? For all they know, they’re secret agents from an alien planet or figure skaters or any other thing and they wouldn't have a clue.

"Hit me."

"I know you," Sam tells him. "I don't know how I know you, but I know I know you. Well. I mean, even if the nurses hadn't told me we'd come in together. Maybe we hated each other. Maybe we got in a fight and knocked each other out. But for now, I just want to know who I am, and as soon as I looked at you—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupts, because Sam's preaching to the choir. Something about the things he's saying doesn't sit right with Dean, even if he's got a point, and Dean doesn't want to hear any more of it. Sam thinks he hated Dean? Dean never would have imagined that could be the case. "Me too, Sammy."

"Sam," he corrects.

Dean reaches out and pats him on the hand. "Sure, right, Sammy. Whatever you say."

"I just remembered that you're annoying," Sam says.

"Now we're making progress," Dean replies with a grin.

_______________________________________________________________

They don't break out of the hospital exactly. Technically, they're released, and they wait until their effects are turned over to them before they make a break for it. Sure, the nurses said something about sticking around until some inconsistencies with their fingerprints got sorted out, but Sam and Dean pretty much agreed in one quick look at each other that the chances that was going to turn up something good were pretty slim.

"So, you think we're, like, serial killers or something?" Dean smiles wide when they stroll past the hospital's security booth and try to look natural as they step out onto the sidewalk. "I bet we'd make awesome serial killers."

"We're not serial killers," Sam replies sourly. "Whatever went wrong with our fingerprints, I'm sure it was just a machine scanning wrong or something."

Dean lifts an eyebrow, because he's pretty sure they've had some trouble with authorities, and Sam had been just as eager to get the hell out of dodge as he was. But he doesn't say as much, just shakes his head and looks around. "Alright, well, what now? We've got nowhere to go that we know of. No family to stay with that we know of. I'm pretty sure that credit card I just used was fake, because there's no way my name is Charles Cunningham Drake, Jr. so even if we aren't serial killers, the cops are gonna be on us pretty soon. I'm thinking we're pretty boned here, Sammy."

"Sam," Sam corrects. The kid never misses a beat. "I've got an idea of where we can start looking. The nurses told me some kids found us out cold in Quarry Park, called in the cops thinking we were just drunk and passed out, but they brought us to the hospital instead when they saw the condition we were in. Maybe whatever happened to us there can help lead us to, I don't know. Something."

"So we're heading there?" Sam nods, and Dean looks around. He's not sure if he's familiar with Charlottesville, Virginia, but it's certainly not ringing any bells. He might have lived here his whole life for all he knows, but Dean wouldn't be able to say what state he was in if Sam hadn't told him. "You know how to get there, genius?"

Sam holds up his phone and Dean sees the GPS on it is already set. He groans. "Great. Only an hour and a half walk. Which is fine. It's not like we just got out of a hospital or anything."

"It's less than five miles, you baby," Sam answers. "Unless you wanna go back in the hospital and ask them to call us a cab."

The walk is damn well worth it as soon as they're turning a corner, passing the Quarry Park parking lot, and Dean's eyes are immediately drawn to a long black car tucked lovingly into a shaded spot. 1967 Chevy Impala, he doesn't even have to check.

"That's my car," Dean says at the same time Sam tells him, "I know that car."

They pause for a second to smile at each other, and then Dean is moving quickly, hands passing reverently over a beautiful, slick surface. "Hey, Baby," he coos. "Did you miss me? I sure missed you."

"You didn't even know you had a car until ten seconds ago," Sam points out.

Dean looks up with a glare, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

"Okay, so I guess we know what those keys were for," Sam says, watching Dean fit them in and open the car up. She's a little stuffy from being out in the heat for so long, but not too bad.

Inside, the Impala is almost too clean—this is their only lead, after all. But Sam finds something on the floor behind the shotgun seat and when he picks it up, it's a godsend.

"Apparently, we stay at Budget Inns," Sam says, turning the keycard over in his hand.

"Alright, so we're cheap serial killers," Dean tells him, grabbing the card out of his hand. "Don't imagine this thing has an address on it. Or a room number? That would be pretty suite. Get it, Sam? Suite, 'cause it's a motel?"

"Hilarious," Sam deadpans. He rounds the car. "Hey, open the trunk. Maybe there are more clues in there?"

Dean circles around and pops the trunk. It's empty, but it looks way too small, and Dean gets the strangest sensation, like there's more to it. Instinctively, he reaches down and finds a hidden flap, then pulls open a compartment full of knives, machetes, stakes, ninja stars, axes, guns, guns, more guns.

They stand in stunned silence for about a minute, until finally Dean breaks it. "Still think we're not serial killers, Sammy?"

For the first time, Sam doesn't even correct him on the name. "Jesus Christ," Sam whispers, his voice so soft and scared, he sounds like a little boy. Dean feels sorry for him all of a sudden. He's not surprised, not really, by what they just found. But he wishes he could hide it from Sam. "Who the hell _are_ we?"

Dean shrugs. "It's my car, Sam. Might not have anything to do with you at all."

Sam shakes his head and takes a step back. "You know as well as I do that isn't true."

"C'mon," Dean says, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm sure it'll all make sense once we get to the motel."

He's lying, and Sam must know it, but he nods his head and follows Dean.

_______________________________________________________________

When they reach the motel, the man at the front desk recognizes them immediately. He isn't friendly exactly, but he doesn't look like he's about to call the cops on them, so Dean slides up to the counter and gives him an easy grin.

"Thought you two might not be coming back after all," he tells them. "Haven't seen you in or out for days."

"Wine tour," Sam blurts out. Dean turns to give him a look, then sees the poster that must have prompted the cover story, so he goes with it.

"Yeah, right. We've been on the wine tour."

"For four days?" the guy asks.

Dean winks. "There's a lot of wine to drink in the world, you know?"

"Sure," the guy replies. "Whatever. Can I help you with something?"

"Well, you see, my friend and I, we've been a little heavy on the sauce, you know. Forgot what our room number was. Think you could—?"

"Sure, room 32, just around the left corner there and down the hall."

"And that's still ours?" Sam asks.

The guy laughs. "You paid it off in cash for two weeks. Not my business if you get too drunk to sleep in it. No refunds."

"That won't be necessary," Dean says, drumming his fingers on the counter before straightening up. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem," the motel worker says. He waits a few seconds longer to see if they have more questions, then pops his headphones back in and starts bobbing his head absently.

Dean turns to Sam as they leave the office. "Cash," he says. "I guess that explains why he's not calling the sheriff on us yet."

"I love that there has to be a 'yet' on there," Sam replies.

"Well, you know," Dean lets Sam fit the key card in the slot and push the door to their room open, "since we may or may not be—"

They step into the room, and this part gets Dean even more than the arsenal in their car.

"Great," Sam mutters as he crosses the threshold. "So we're not just serial killers. We're _crazy_ serial killers."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Dean says, even as his eyes are scanning over a wall covered in missing persons reports, articles about dead bodies, strange symbols scrawled on scraps of paper, and pieces of string creating a web of connections. He looks down at his feet, and apparently he's just kicked through a line of salt. "I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this?"

Sam snorts and shakes his head as he sinks down onto one of the beds and stares at the wall. He seems calmer, at least, than he did when they looked into the trunk. He's coming to terms with this, whatever the hell it may be.

"Okay," Sam says after a few long breaths. "We wanted clues, right? So now we've got plenty."

He groans when he realizes what Sam's trying to get at. Sam pulls a stack of papers off the wall and shoves them into Dean's arms before going back for the remaining half.

"Research," Dean mutters. "I have a feeling this is not something I enjoy."

Sam's already balls deep in police reports, though, and the look on his face tells Dean they may have differing opinions on this.

_______________________________________________________________

"So this is what our options boil down to," Sam says over a plate of slimy lettuce and tomatoes. "Either we hunt monsters and were stopping a bloodthirsty god of some kind when we went to that park, or we're nut jobs."

Dean's bacon cheeseburger smells and looks much more delicious than that thing Sam's calling a salad, but he's too busy just trying to keep himself from bouncing all over the diner to try it. He hunts _monsters_. Freaking monsters. That is so cool.

"We are so cool," he says. "Dude, do you realize how cool this makes us?"

Sam fails at hiding his smile behind his hand, then shakes his head. "Dean, you realize that is by far the least likely of the two possible options, right?"

"I feel like it's true," he says. "C'mon, Sammy, don't you feel like we hunt monsters?"

"Yes," Sam admits. "But that's probably because I am insane."

"Now what are the chances we share the same kind of crazy _and_ the same kind of amnesia?"

"Maybe that's how we found each other," Sam points out. "Don't cracked conspiracy theorists all manage to find each other?"

"Or maybe," Dean says slowly, because the idea is only just starting to form, but it's kind of brilliant, "maybe the reason we don't have head trauma is because we've got some kind of monster amnesia?"

"Monster amnesia?" Sam asks, like it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"Yeah, sure. We didn't bump our heads. Maybe that god we were hunting took our memories to throw us off its track. Or, like, maybe it eats memories. Or—"

Sam buries his face in his hand. "Oh god, it's true. You're a total head case. And that means I'm a head case, too."

"You said it yourself, Sam. There's only one way to really know for sure."

"You can't be serious," Sam replies. "You want to try to hunt a ghost?"

"Hey, if the ghost shows up, we gank it, we're heroes. It doesn't, we're looney. At least we'll know."

"What if the ghost ganks us, huh? What if on some incredibly slim chance this is all real, and we don't remember how to fight?"

Dean grins and reaches across the table, upsetting Sam's hair and, by extension, Sam. "Aww, Sammy. If you're scared, you could have just said that. I promise I'll keep you safe from Casper."

Sam's glare intensifies, but the goading works. "Fine, we can hunt the ghost. But what if that god we were hunting is still alive—shouldn't we check into that?"

Dean shrugs. "We do the ghost now, if we see more bodies drop here while we're gone. If they do, that means there's still a job to do, and then we'll do it."

 

Sam agrees with a shrug, but Dean thinks he looks a little excited under his bitchy exterior. They pay the waitress, pile in the car, and drive two towns over to check out the ghost hunt Dean dug up.

_______________________________________________________________

By the time they get back to their temporary home base in Charlottesville that night, every muscle in Dean's body is aching. The sun has long since set, and it's a trek just to make it from the car to their room. They drop their duffels by the door as soon as they get in, then Dean watches Sam collapse face first onto his bed.

"That. Was—" Sam turns over, looks at Dean, and Dean isn't sure if he hated it or loved it until the smile breaks over Sam's face, big dimples and white teeth and Dean hasn't seen anything so beautiful ever, at least not that he can remember. "Awesome. That was so awesome."

"Awesome," Dean confirms. "Dude."

"Oh man." Sam groans as he sits up, but he's still got that smile pasted on like it's never going away. "The way you shot that guy and he just exploded into nothing."

"I know, right?" Dean looks over at the salt line he'd broken when they came back from the hospital a few days earlier and makes a mental note to fix it as soon as he can stand again. "Rock salt. Who would have thought?"

"You, apparently. How did you know?"

Dean leans against the wall by the door. He's dying to get horizontal, but he's stuck watching Sam's long body as it flexes and relaxes on the mattress across the room. "I guess I'm just really good at what I do."

"Man, and when the old lady grabbed you and I thought we were done for. Didn't think we could fight one ghost, let alone three."

"Yeah, lucky for my ass you were there." Dean crosses the room and sits on the side of his bed facing Sam. "How'd you know to torch their portraits?"

"I don't know!" Sam laughs and falls back on his bed. "We're not crazy, Dean. I really thought for a while, the more we turned up on this monster hunting thing, I really thought we were nuts."

"But we're not," says Dean. "We're heroes."

"Yeah," Sam bites his bottom lip as he smiles. "Those kids wouldn't be alive if it weren't for us."

He turns his head toward Dean, suddenly quiet and serious. Dean watches Sam watching him for a long time before he starts to feel uncomfortable. "What?"

Sam sits up and moves to the edge of his bed so that he's facing Dean. "Hey, look, Dean, can I tell you something?"

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "Can I stop you?"

Sam licks his lips. "I lied to you, back at the hospital. When you asked how I knew my name. I lied, because I thought I was crazy, you know?" He lifts his eyes to Dean's, and Dean nods to let him know he's listening. "I knew because I, uh, I saw you calling me it. And I knew yours, too, before you told me. Because I saw myself call you Dean."

"You mean you remembered?" Dean asks. "What the hell, Sam? We've been trying to—"

"No, not remembered. I mean, not really." He takes a deep breath. "I have these dreams."

"Dreams?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, dreams. Really vivid ones." Dean opens his mouth, but Sam cuts him off before he can say anything. "Not memories. They're just—flashes. I see, like, snapshots, I guess? Of whatever came before. A few seconds, not enough to really learn anything from. But before you woke up, I saw you. You called me Sam. And it felt…"

Sam trails off, but Dean pushes. "Felt what?"

"It felt right. You—this, this whole thing. I never saw us on a hunt. I didn't know what to do back there. But. They keep happening, every night. I've seen us. I know we're supposed to be together like this." He looks down at his hands. "They're just dreams, right? That's what you're gonna tell me. I'm just dreaming and I think it's real because I want to?"

Dean shakes his head. He stands up and moves to Sam's bed so he can slide a finger under Sam's chin and make Sam look up at him. "Hey. No, listen. If ghosts and angry gods and monster amnesia can be real, why can't dreams? Doesn't sound all that different."

"Really?" Sam asks, and Dean nods, just to see him smile.

It makes desire curl up inside him, stronger than the urge to eat or sleep or live, and he doesn't see a reason to fight. Sam said they belonged together. Dean couldn't really agree more.

"Tell me something, Sammy," he says, drawing in the finger still curled under Sam's chin. "In any of your dreams, did we ever do this?"

He moves slowly, giving Sam plenty of chances to stop him. The kiss is soft, short. Sam's eyes are still closed when he pulls away.

"No," Sam tells him gently when he opens his eyes, and he meets Dean's gaze head on. "But I wanted to. God, I wanted to."

"I think we did," Dean says. "I think we have for a long time."

Sam shakes his head, but he's the one drawing closer this time. "We didn't. Something stopped us. There was always something stopping us."

Dean laughs against Sam's mouth. "Yeah? What was that?"

Sam kisses him, hard this time, moving in close and pushing Dean back into the bed. "I don't know," he says between kisses. "I don't know. I just know I hated it. I spent so damn long wishing things were different, and now I can't even remember what could have kept me from kissing you."

The idea sounds absurd. Nothing, nothing could ever stop him from wanting Sam, from taking this if Sam wanted it too. Nothing. The kisses are too easy, everything about Sam is too familiar. The sounds he makes, the way he angles his head. It feels new, but it can't be. Dean never would have lived this long without Sam.

He smiles picturing how it must have started, a bullshit hunt they both stumbled into, maybe. Dean knows he must have tried to come on so cool, risked his ass on some flashy move just so Sam could see him shine. Sam wouldn't have been impressed, would have laughed when he tripped up, finished the hunt, then dragged Dean's ass out and dressed his wounds. They must have been young, he thinks, when they found each other, to account for the strength of the draw Sam has on him. And he wouldn't have wasted time pretending not to want this, whatever Sam might think. He'd bet his soul he and Sam's lives have been mixed up for years, and that makes him feel good, like, no matter what else happened, they must have had a good life. It's a comfort Dean needs; something tells him things didn't end well for the nice blonde lady cutting the crust off his sandwich or the man in the U.S. Marines shirt.

Maybe that's why he started hunting, some monster ripping through his family. Sam's too. Maybe they were both lost and alone, two orphans no one believed or wanted, looking for any goddamn thing to hold on to. And what they found was each other—a lucky break, really. Sam thinks they kept their hands off each other this long? Frankly, Dean thinks that's stupid.

But he doesn't push it, doesn't want to start a fight over who's right and who's wrong. They'll never be able to settle it anyway, not really, not unless they miraculously get their memories back, which Dean doesn't even care about at this point. All he wants is Sam, and right now, his lap is full of Sam, straddling him, kissing him hard and deep, grinding his body in a way that has Dean hard in just a few hot minutes.

"God, Sam," Dean murmurs, pushing long hair aside and pulling Sam in by the back of his neck. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Sam says, hiding his face against Dean's neck. "That's a good idea."

Dean pulls back, eyes scanning over Sam's face, trying to read him. "Tell me what you want."

"Want you inside me, Dean," Sam says, before cupping both sides of Dean's face and pushing down into a hard kiss. "Please. Fuck me."

"I want that too, Sammy." Dean moves fast, rolling over so he's on top of Sam, sliding in between Sam's legs. They're both clothed, what feels like a thousand layers of denim still blocking them, but Dean feels good just knowing they're only seconds and inches away from having no space at all.

They make out a few minutes longer, until Sam pulls back, making an 'mmm' sound and kissing Dean several times before he can finally make himself speak. "We should take our clothes off. That's how this goes, right?"

Dean's laugh explodes out of him, unexpected and airy and making his chest feel lighter than he would have thought possible. He pulls up, reaching back to bunch his t shirt in one hand and tug it off in one clean motion. Then he pounces down on Sam, attacking the buttons on his flannel shirt and wondering how Sam hasn't burnt up yet with this many layers on. Dean is just trying to do him a favor taking them off—honest.

Once he gets that open, Sam sits up just enough to toss it off to the side, and Dean makes a frustrated noise, pushing up the shirt he has on underneath until it's trapped under Sam's armpit, then swooping down to suck at a dark brown nipple instead of bothering with taking off the rest of it.

Sam manages to laugh and moan at the same time, his left hand coming up to cup the back of Dean's head, push his eager mouth down harder and tugging on the strands.

"Still not naked," he pants, hips arching up so Dean can feel how hard he is in his jeans. God, he wants to fuck Sam so bad he can't even think enough to get undressed.

With one last good lick to the now pebbled nipple in his mouth, Dean tears himself away, licking his lips slowly when he finds Sam watching him, his big chest rising and falling frantically as Sam gasps for breath.

Dean can't resist the urge to touch, so he presses his palm flat against Sam's abs, deep cut and so damn built it feels like pushing against marble. Above, Sam is squirming to get his shirt off over his head, but Dean's eyes follow the trail of well-defined muscle down and down. He lets out a pained sound when his hands move into the dip of Sam's pelvis, and Jesus, he's so cut it's practically a fucking canyon.

Sam makes his own undignified noises then, and Dean grins, watching Sam's face as he starts to ease the button at the top of Sam's jeans.

"Better have a pretty spectacular dick if you wanna keep walking around being taller than me," Dean says, unzipping Sam's fly and letting him get just the slightest bit of pressure as he moves down. Sam's dick feels more than adequate from what the denim is letting him cup, and he's eager to see it, so he doesn't waste time being careful.

Sam takes in a grateful gulp of air once he's free, and it reminds Dean that he's feeling pretty tight in his jeans, but Sam's too fucking beautiful to walk away from just yet. Sam's dick is long and _thick_ , standing up straight against his belly, so damn full. Dean wants to taste it, wonders if that's something he does, if he'd be able to finish Sam off in his mouth.

He gives Dean a smirk, just the slightest edge of cocky. "That spectacular enough for you?"

"Eh," Dean says, just hardly managing to keep it together. "I guess it'll do."

Sam laughs, shifting. "You're still dressed."

Dean has every intention of saying something clever, but all he can get out is, "Can I suck you?"

He watches Sam suck his bottom lip between his teeth and nod before moving down, trying to take Sam's dick into his mouth. But Sam reaches out to stop him, and when Dean looks up, his expression question enough, Sam smiles softly, says, "Later. Some other time. Right now, I just really need you to fuck me, okay?"

"Yeah, of course," Dean says. "I guess if I weren't me, I'd really wanna get fucked by me, too."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he leads Dean up, smiles when Dean pushes his hands over the sweaty ends of his hair and kisses him. "I've wanted this," he says between kisses, "for so long. If we remember—just once, I need it just this once."

Dean shakes his head. "Gonna get a lot more than that, Sammy. I promise."

"We're gonna need lube," Sam points out.

"And a condom," Dean agrees, crawling off the bed. "I think I might have—"

"Lotion, on the night stand. Just use the lotion."

"Got you pretty desperate, huh?" Dean huffs out a laugh. "Isn't gonna help with the condom thing."

"No condom," Sam says, rising to lean back on his elbows and watch Dean. "No condom. If it's just this once, we're gonna do it right. I wanna feel all of you."

"Fucking stupid risk," Dean mutters, but the idea of sliding into Sam raw makes his blood pump even harder, his dick now fully hard and screaming for attention.

Sam's eyes widen, a pleading expression that would make Dean fold even if he didn't already want to give in. So he decides screw it—if Sam's okay with it, he's okay with it. As far as he's concerned, they've done this a thousand times, with no one else between them, they've probably been fucking without condoms for years. Sam's the one who should be insisting.

"God, you fucking win, you little pain," Dean tells him, but he's already standing, so he tosses Sam the lotion and stands off to the side. "You ready to have your mind blown?"

"You really think highly of yourself, huh?" Sam asks, his eyes following Dean greedily, so Dean knows he's not as collected as he's acting.

Dean starts working the buttons on his jeans, moving as slowly as he can manage. "Watch closely now, Sam," he says, and Sam swallows hard, nodding.

"Gonna give you a nice show," Dean says. "You take that lotion and touch yourself while you look at me, got it?"

Sam groans like a horny kid, scrambling on the bed for the lotion and wetting his fingers to let Dean know he'll obey.

Deans not a sadist, so he rewards Sam for his good behavior, taking a step closer to the bed so Sam has a better view as Dean finally opens his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. But Dean's still got boxers on, and that makes Sam whine in the back of his throat.

"Please, Dean, c'mon," Sam urges him, reaching out.

He shakes his head, stepping back so he's out of even Sam's grasp. "What'd I tell you, Sam?"

Sam lies back, hesitating only a moment before he reaches down, circling his finger around his hole, spreading lotion on the soft pink skin and Dean knows he's supposed to be the one stripping, but he pauses to stare in awe as Sam's index finger finally slips in and Sam rocks forward at an awkward angle.

"Feel good?" Dean asks. "Thinking of me?"

"Yeah," Sam gasps. "Oh god, yeah."

His eyes are lidded as he works himself, and that just won't do. "Look at me. You wanna see what you're gonna get, don't you?"

Instead of answering, Sam just makes a needy motion with his hand, and Dean draws closer, toying with the elastic strap on his boxers, stretching it down and then back up, giving Sam only the slightest of peeks until Sam ups the game, reclining back onto the mattress as if he's tired of watching Dean, and pressing a second finger into his hole.

Dean has to move to the edge of the bed then, just to get a good enough view, and Sam pounces, sitting up with one hand still trapped between his legs. He catches the fabric of Dean's boxers with the other hand, and even though Dean tries to evade him, Sam manages to pull them down over the impressive boner Dean is sporting.

Sam's face lights up like Christmas—like he's never seen anything as delightful as Dean's cock before in his life, and that's it. That makes all of Dean's control snap. He moves into Sam's range, let's Sam's hand caress over his stomach and down, fingers moving through thick, dark hair until Sam has Dean's dick wrapped in a big fist.

"Thought you wanted to get fucked so bad," Dean says, trying to sound teasing as Sam strokes him. All he manages to do is sound needy, and Sam smiles up at him, sweet as pie and more than a little devilish.

He leans forward, his mouth ghosting over the head of Dean's dick. "You think you're the only one that knows how to tease, Dean?" he asks, kissing precome off of Dean, his free hand working around Dean's body, grabbing his ass tight and pulling him in. "If you don't fuck me right now, I'm gonna make you regret it. You'll be crying until the sun rises before I let you get off."

It's so hot and filthy, Dean almost wants to take him up on it. He files the threat away, making a note to remind himself to challenge Sam to make good on this someday. Right now, he's not feeling patient enough, and, well, he really wants what Sam wants. It's just stubbornness keeping them apart at this point.

Climbing into bed over Sam, Dean takes the wrist of the hand Sam's fucking himself on and pulls it out. By now, Sam's got three fingers knuckle deep in his ass, and Dean tangles their hand together, the lotion making a sloppy mess between them.

"Just lemme check and make sure you're ready for me," Dean says. "Want the job done right."

"Oh, fuck you," Sam replies.

Dean just smiles at him and puts one dry finger in where Sam's were. There's no resistance, the hole already so wet and stretched for him. Just waiting for him.

"Jesus, Sammy," he says. "Does it feel good? I mean, I don't know if this is something I do all that—"

"Please, please, please tell me you are not about to 'no homo' me while you have a finger up my ass."

"Smartass," says Dean.

"Slowass," Sam replies.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam gives the mattress a frustrated slap. "Would you hurry up? I don't have all year."

Dean pulls his hand away and jumps across the bed, crushing Sam with his weight when he lands and giving a very disgruntled Sam a kiss before he manages to catch up. "It's true, looks like yours are fleeting at best."

He's expecting some kind of comeback, but Sam catches his face and pulls him in, gentle, tender almost, suddenly very serious. "You don't understand how much I need you," Sam says, and Dean wants to tell him that's insane, that Dean needs him more, but he thinks it must not even be worth saying. "Take care of me, Dean."

That flips a switch inside Dean, and before he's thinking, he's pinning Sam down, one hand on Sam's ass, lifting him up just enough to line their dicks up, and his other hand fumbling around, looking for the lotion. He does a sloppy job slicking up his cock, but it doesn't matter. Sam is ready for him, and when he slides home inside, Sam lets his head fall back, letting out a cry of pleasure or victory—it makes Dean's chest burn like he just drank something damn near perfect.

"Sammy," he says, just as Sam is saying his name.

They shift to get a better angle, Sam wrapping one long leg around Dean, the heel of his foot slipping down Dean's spine until it rests on his ass, pushing him in harder. Dean is already balls deep in Sam, so he laughs at the impatient little fucker and grabs his other leg by the thigh, using it for leverage as he pulls back and slams in.

He fucking loves it, his head snapping up to look Dean in the eye and when Dean pushes in for a kiss, he gets a bite to the bottom lip, soothed by Sam sucking at him until he curls his tongue in and Sam relaxes into the kiss.

Sam doesn't waste any time. His hand is still slick, and he reaches down and starts jerking himself off so fast Dean can hear the sound of Sam's hand working faster than his thrusts, the slap of his hips fucking deep into Sam, letting himself bottom out and making sure Sam gets a nice burn before he does it again.

"Dean, I'm gonna—"

"Don't you dare, Sammy," Dean whispers against his mouth, and he kisses down Sam's jaw to distract Sam. "Not 'til I've got you."

Letting go of Sam's thigh, Dean traps his hand between them, waits for Sam to let go so he can take his turn. He gets a good grip on Sam's cock and fucks him in rhythm, slower than Sam had been doing, but too good apparently. A few quick strokes, a twist at the head, and Sam's shooting into Dean's fist, giving Dean plenty of lube as he continues to work Sam through his orgasm.

He keeps at it until Sam's cock is completely soft in his hand, and then he lets go, turning Sam over and pounding into him much harder, chasing his own orgasm. Sam's response is so hot it kills Dean's ability to draw this out: he starts muttering filth about how good Dean is, how big his cock is, how much he loves being full of it, that Dean can use him whenever he wants to, like all he's ever wanted is to be pushed around by Dean.

Stronger men than Dean would have caved at that, and he caves hard, his orgasm making everything go white behind his eyes. He falls down on Sam, exhausted once he's done shooting his load into Sam's ass, and Sam squirms up to meet him as he twitches with his last few aftershocks. For a minute or so, Dean lies there, with his face pressed against Sam's giant, sweaty back, wondering if he ever has to move, because he doesn't want to.

Then Sam grunts. "You know, for a short guy, you sure weigh a lot."

Dean laughs, rolling off Sam and onto his back. "Weren't such a smartass when you were crying for me to fuck you."

Sam turns on his side and looks down at Dean, a shy smile on his face. He starts running his fingers absently on Dean's arm. "You really think we've done that before?"

Dean shrugs. "I dunno, Sammy," he says. "I don’t really care, as long as we do it again."

"I don't think I want to remember." Dean's eyebrows draw together, and Sam averts his eyes, a guilty look like he hadn't meant to say that. "I know we have to try. But…I'm happy. Dean, we've never been happy like this."

"C'mon, what makes you say that?"

Sam shakes his head and looks away. "My dreams. You looked at me in some of them like you didn't want to know me."

"Nightmares," Dean tells him, reaching out to cup Sam's cheek in his palm. "You must know how crazy that is."

The smile Sam gives him is half-assed at best. He nods, but he still won't meet Dean's eyes, not even when he leans in for a kiss. "Can I sleep here tonight?"

Dean nearly snorts as he drags Sam down against his chest. "You ask stupid questions, kid."

Sam struggles for a few seconds, but by the time Dean has him held tight against his heart, Sam's smiling, Dean can feel it against his skin. "I'm more mature than you are, moron."

"Night, Sammy," Dean says, just to hear the bitchy response he knows he'll get.

"My name's Sam," says Sam, but after a few seconds, he hears a grudging. "G'night, Dean."

_______________________________________________________________

Things go on pretty well for just over a week. They take on four more test hunts and find that their luck remembering how to fight holds out against vampires, black dogs, kitsunes, and ghouls just as well as it does with ghosts. The trail for their memories has grown pretty cold, but Sam's probably not honestly looking that hard—Dean sure as hell isn't.

They check out of the motel in Charlottesville, head west to Baton Rouge. Neither of them says it in as many words, but they've more-or-less settled with what's happened. Their memories are gone, and they can either drive themselves nuts trying to change that or they can accept it, roll with it, and keep doing what they do best. Sam doesn't have as many dreams when he's not pushing himself to remember, and Dean likes any plan that involves a less freaked out Sam.

Right now, they're cleaning and sorting their guns and knives, preparing to chase down a demon that's been riding the vice principal of the local middle school, skinning up kids that get sent to her office, then pinning the murders on the school nurse.

"So, it's Christmas next week," Dean says as he drops a few flasks of holy water into the duffel they're packing and grins up at Sam. "You excited?"

"I don't even know if we celebrate Christmas, Dean," Sam replies, eyes not leaving the gun he's reassembling.

"Well, I certainly don't feel Jewish, so Hanukkah's out, and I want presents." Dean grins, fiddling with the straps on his bag. "Are you gonna get me something?"

Sam looks up, lifts an eyebrow when he sees Dean's face. "I really hope you're not Jewish, man. You've eaten more bacon in the last week than most people do in their whole lives."

"The last week has been my whole life as far as I can tell."

Sam rolls his eyes and finishes with the gun, tossing it aside. "You think we've got enough?"

Dean nods and hefts one of the duffels up onto his shoulder. "C'mon, Sammy. I want a present. I'll get you a present."

Sam walks up behind him, curls his hand on Dean's shoulder and presses a kiss into the dip of his neck. "I'm sure I can think of something," he says hotly.

Dean can't help wondering if that instant effect Sam has on his dick is gonna wear off eventually. Probably not, but he tries his best to play it cool. "If we're Jewish, you have to give me eight things."

"And you have to lay off the cheeseburgers." Sam slaps his ass. "C'mon, let's get going, huh?"

"Aww, Sammy, you got me a demon hunt for Christmas. You shouldn't have."

"Before the new year, Dean." Sam grabs his own duffel and heads for the door, and Dean takes a moment to stick his tongue out at Sam's back before he follows.

_______________________________________________________________

The demon is a nice looking lady, late middle age, with her hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun, a crisp white shirt tucked into a long skirt, and a twelve-year-old's guts stuck in her teeth.

She smiles at Sam and Dean with oil black eyes, but she can't do a damn thing to act on all the threats she's spewing. Their luck held out again: Sam drew a symbol he'd seen them use in a dream on the ceiling, and now the bitch can't even move, let alone fight them.

"Devil's trap," the demon says as soon as she's caught on. "Well, this is awkward."

"For you, maybe," Dean says. "Works out pretty well for us, right Sammy?"

"Oh, sure," Sam says, grinning at Dean. "I'm pretty cool with it."

"Look, if this is about last time—"

"This is about this time," Sam tells her. "You thought you could get away with this forever?"

The demon laughs. "I mean, it has taken you geniuses a year and a half to catch up with me. That's how long it's been since I busted outta the pit."

When Sam and Dean don't respond, the demon pouts. "You boys don't recognize me? That hurts my feelings."

"Let me see if I care," Dean pauses, then shrugs, "nope! Sam?"

"Not particularly."

"Here's a hint: you exorcised me in Colora—"

"This bitch is gonna talk until she finds a way out of there. How do we kill it?"

The demons eyes change from black to light blue then, and she looks between Sam and Dean. "You don't know how to kill a demon without your little brother's help now, Dean?"

"Little brother?" Dean asks, his eyes jumping up. He looks over at Sam, and his breath catches in his throat as he watches Sam dig a knife out of his duffel.

"Something tells me this will do it," Sam replies, like he didn't hear a word of what just passed while he was distracted with the weapons. He steps toward the demon, but Dean stops him before he kills it.

"Why'd you say brother?" he asks it.

She stares at Dean for a long time, then her head falls back on a long laugh. "Oh, that is rich," she says. "Someone ate your brains, huh?"

Sam and Dean don't say anything, but she doesn't need much more to work off now that she's figured it out.

"Finally went and fucked your baby brother, didn't you? We were taking bets in Hell."

Dean shakes his head, and Sam gives him a look. "Demons lie," he says.

She grins. "That's the best part. I don’t even have to lie. I couldn't make up something better than the truth." She looks over at Dean and smirks. "Aren't you curious what else you've done? What Sammy here's done? I could tell you stories that'll make you sick. Or, you know. Sick _er_. Already pretty sick if you ask me."

"You shut your mouth, bitch," Dean snaps.

"Sam's one of us, you know." She looks at Sam, her eyes black again. "Look at your sad little face, Sammy. You believe me, don'tcha?"

"Kill it," Dean says.

Sam steps forward immediately, drives the blade through the monster's neck, but she's still laughing as she flickers orange light and dies.

"Dean." Sam looks up at him, his eyes wide. "I don't think she was lying."

"Let's go, Sam," Dean says, taking the knife from Sam and wiping it clean. "Cops are gonna be here soon."

Sam nods and follows him out.

_______________________________________________________________

The quiet between them on the ride out of town could slit throats. They get a room—two beds for the first time since they started fooling around, and isn't that just about the most fucked up thing imaginable.

Dean takes first shower, comes out of the bathroom to find his brother (fuck, his _brother_ ) stretched out on his bed, his shirt riding up and exposing a little slip of tan skin. A few hours ago, Dean would have taken it as an invitation. Now he's standing in the doorway, staring like the pervert he apparently is, transfixed by the sight.

He still wants Sam. The really fucked up thing is not just that Dean still wants him, but that he knows, deep down, he knew all along. He wanted his brother before they lost their memories, and he never really forgot what Sam was to him.

Sam looks up after a minute or so, his eyes roving over Dean's naked chest, and suddenly Dean wishes he'd put some damn clothes on before coming out here.

"You don't exactly make this easy," Sam says. 

"Yeah, well," Dean replies, pointing at the practically pornographic way Sam is splayed on the bed. "Right back at you."

His brother sits up then, looking away from Dean. "I can't believe it never occurred to us we were related."

Dean flinches at that, moves toward his bag instead of looking at Sam, because it's not strictly true. Dean remembers his brother. He remembers that baby, Sammy, and it was one of the first connections he made as soon as he woke up in that hospital. He didn't take the extra step because he didn't want to. Because he was twisted way before their memories got wiped, and he didn't give Sam a chance to remember before he was fucking his brother into the first mattress he could.

"It happened," Dean says. "It's done now. Can we not talk about it?"

Dean jumps with surprise when he feels a hand on his shoulder and realizes Sam got up and crossed the room while he was slipping into a boxer and a t shirt. "Of course we have to talk about it."

"We didn't know," Dean says, trying to look Sam in the eye. Trying to mean it. "I didn’t know, Sam."

"Dean, I—I don't care." Sam touches his face; he's too close, too tempting, and Dean is way too deep in this already. "I don't remember being your brother. You don't remember being mine. But we're never going to forget what it was like when we—"

"Stop it." Dean shoves him away, his voice rising to a yell, "I remember everything now, Sam. I remember the day mom and dad brought you home. You were this big," he holds his hands up about a foot apart, and he nearly chokes on his words, "I snuck out of bed and sat by your crib for hours the first night, until mom found me. You wrapped your little hand around my finger and I swore I was gonna take care of you."

"Dean," Sam says sadly, trying to comfort Dean with an arm around his shoulder, but just the thought of letting Sam touch him again, of what he really wants Sam to do, it makes him want to die.

"Sammy." He shakes his head. "My baby brother. I was supposed to keep you safe."

"You made me happy," Sam replies. "You covered my ass on every hunt this week and probably a thousand more for all we know. How's that for keeping me safe? And it wasn't all you doing the fucking—you know that. I told you the first night, Dean, I wanted this before. Maybe we got a lucky break here. Maybe we haven't been letting ourselves have this, and maybe we're better off now. Anyway, the line's already been crossed. We can't go back and fix that."

Dean rounds on him. "You can't seriously be suggesting we keep going."

"I remember things, too, Dean. Maybe not as vivid as that, but I have all these damn flashes you keep telling me to ignore. Forget about. What was it you said last week? 'Even if it's real, it was another life,' that doesn't apply here?"

Dean had said that after Sam woke up shaking, talking about a blonde girl, a blonde girl he loved, and how he saw her burning up above him, no way to save her. Dean had been as selfish telling Sam to let it go as he'd been about everything else. Sam thought maybe she was his wife and that the reason they hadn't acted on their attraction before was because he was still mourning her. Dean had told Sam it wasn't worth worrying about, because if Sam was right, Dean didn’t want her standing between them again.

"It's a little different when it's about fucking your brother instead of letting go of some horrible shit that wasn't letting you sleep."

"Is it?" Sam gives him an earnest look, one Dean has a feeling he doesn't have a good track record saying no to. "You wanted me to be happy. I want us to be happy, Dean."

"So you want me to forget the only damn thing I remember?"

Sam shakes his head, suddenly giving Dean a small smile. "Don't forget. That story you told me, about you sitting by my crib? I like that. I'm glad I know it." He licks his lips. "Just maybe stop making it a bad thing."

"I can't, Sam," he says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I just can't."

Sam nods, looking hurt but not surprised. "So what do we do now?"

"We go back to where we started. We find that god we were hunting, and we make them put us right before we do something else we regret."

Sam flinches like Dean slapped him. "Regret?"

"You said it yourself. We crossed a line."

"Yeah, well I liked it. And, maybe my memory's acting up again, but fuck you, Dean. You liked it, too." He changes the subject before Dean gets a chance to respond. "Anyway, we've been watching for that god, and there hasn't been a sign it's still breathing. It's a dead end. We already killed the damn thing."

Dean shakes his head. "We're gonna be sure. And if you're right, we'll find another way."

"I don't want that," Sam says. "A few hours ago, admit it, you didn't want it either. You know whatever we find, it's going to be terrible."

Dean turns to glare at him. "We're going."

_______________________________________________________________

"I'm telling you, Dean, it doesn't add up," Sam says, flapping a file of research at him. "Please hear me out. This doesn’t even have to do with me not wanting our memories back—I think you're wrong about this."

"It's the only lead we have," Dean replies, staying on course until Sam finds a better option.

"Would you listen to me? I don't want to rush in there halfcocked. I don't want you to get yourself killed, even if you are a stubborn fucking asshole."

A few days ago, Dean would have waggled his eyebrows at Sam and made some genius comment about whose stubborn asshole he was fucking. Sam would have pretended to be annoyed, but he wouldn't have been able to swallow that fond smile Dean's hardly seen since they found out they were brothers, and Dean knows he's really twisted, because he wants to do it, wants to flirt and see Sam get all flustered for him.

For a few seconds, Sam watches him, a hopeful look on his face, but Dean doesn't take the bait, and eventually Sam sighs, deciding there are more important matters at hand. "Tara is a goddess of compassion, Dean. She tries to help people. She was born from tears of pity for crying out loud, there isn't a single word of lore that says she runs around dropping bodies."

"She was the goddess our research pointed to, right?"

Sam nods grudgingly.

"There's no other logical explanation, right? You and I, we knew something about killing monsters before all this happened, right? Don't you think we just maybe figured something out that lore hadn't?"

"I guess, maybe." Sam looks down. "I can't talk you out of this, can I?"

The only answer Dean needs is provided by a sign on the side of the road telling them to take the exit ahead to get to the Buddhist temple where a week and a half ago they may or may not have pissed off a goddess. Sam is pretty sure that if they find her, she'll finish them both off, but Dean wants a word with the bitch that tricked him into fucking his little brother, and he plans to take her with if he goes down.

The temple is a short walk from where they park the car, and when they arrive, Dean is relieved to find it mostly empty, just as he'd hoped it'd be. He doesn't need to remember much to be able to guess that most devout temple goers don't appreciate hunters blasting their gods away in the middle of worship—bloodthirsty manipulative bitch or not.

It's Sam that finds her. They wander through the hall for ten minutes, pausing in front of every image, every statuette, Dean's disappointment rising when none of them spark even the slightest feeling he's seen it before. But then he spots Sam standing off in a corner, staring at something with enough intensity to make Dean curious.

This statuette is bigger than any of the others in the temple. The goddess sitting on her throne is life-sized. She's beautiful—bronze gold skin, but the rest of her looks real, a rainbow of bright red, pink, and blue scarves and necklaces draped carefully over her. She's not wearing anything on top, the necklaces just hardly covering her breasts, and Sam looks over at Dean, a clear warning, as if he's just waiting for Dean to say something sleazy.

The weird thing is, Dean doesn't want to. All the anger he felt toward her is suddenly out of reach. All he can think is that she's beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he's ever seen.

She blinks her eyes open, and Sam and Dean both take a step back, not from the fact that she's moving, but from the vertical eye in the middle of her forehead that hadn't been visible until she opened it.

"Sam," she says, the name soft and warm, like she already knows him. Her voice is a powerful rumble, like thunder, but gentle as well, with a heavy but clear Tibetan accent. She turns to Dean, her smile just as kind for him. "Dean."

"We've met?" Dean says, trying to sound plucky, but his damn voice trembles at the sight of her.

"You don't remember." She laughs, but it doesn't sound mocking or smug the way Dean expects. Just friendly, a little amused, a little self-deprecating. "Of course you don't. Come, let me remind you."

She holds one hand out to each of them, and Dean watches as Sam nearly takes it. Then the middle of her palm blinks, and Sam pulls back.

Tara smiles again. "It takes some getting used to for your kind."

She closes her palms, covering the eyes up so Sam and Dean don't have to look at them. She's still sitting cross-legged on her throne, so she points to her feet. "Just so they don't take you by surprise."

Dean notices there's an eye lodged in each of her feet as well as her hands, seven total. Which seems excessive, but what does Dean know.

"You took our memories," he accuses. "We want them back."

Her eyebrows draw together, the eye between them shutting tight. "Are you sure?"

"Are we—? Yes we're sure, lady. You can't just go around wiping people's brains."

"It was a gift," she says. "To thank you for freeing me."

"We did what?" Sam asks.

She laughs and beckons them forward. "Come, come. It'll be easier if you just let me show you."

Dean is about to say no, that there's no way they'll be dumb enough to just _trust her_ , but his idiot brother is already pressing his hand flat inside of hers, and Dean can't exactly let Sam go in alone. So he grabs her wrist and closes his eyes, trying to pretend the eyeball in the palm of this hand doesn't weird him out.

It all hits him in an instant. He sees her, this time at the park where they were found. There's a man on the ground, begging for mercy, and she gives it to him. Dean remembers now, the surprise twist to the hunt they'd found once they finally tracked the bloodthirsty god down. She'd been trapped, forced to kill by a sorcerer using an amulet Sam crushed under his foot while Dean held the guy back.

She'd been crying when she turned to them, thankful that they'd freed her. She didn't like killing, just like Sam said. She didn't like hurting anything, not even the bastard who had made her do it.

"I looked into your hearts," she says, and suddenly Dean is jerked out of the memory. He gasps at the same time Sam does, and they turn to look at each other when she takes her hand away. "You both wanted the same thing. I thought that would mean you were both pleased."

"You took a lot from us," Sam says, speaking to her rationally, those big eyes out in full force. "I do appreciate what you gave us," he looks over to Dean apologetically, then back to Tara, "but we didn’t have anything to go off."

She shakes her head. "I have to disagree with you, Sam. I changed nothing about the way you felt for each other. I just took away the ugly things that led you there."

"You took our whole lives," Dean snaps.

"Oh, I tried to take as little as I could. I wanted to go back to when it went bad, so you could remember your happiness together. But your lives were so—" Her voice gets strained, and one tear slips from each of her seven eyes. "Your poor souls were so burdened, and the only thing that could lessen the weight, you wouldn't let yourselves have."

"Since when does enlightenment mean incestuous sex?" he demands.

She shakes her head. "It is my job only to help you get there. What path you take is none of my business."

"Well, it was a pretty fucked up path, so thanks. Now fix us."

Instead of letting Dean's challenging tone get to her, she turns to Sam. "I'm sorry that you saw more than you wanted, Sam. I did not realize," she reaches up, touches her mind's eye and then points to him, "I didn't think to check if you had sight. That was very ungenerous of me."

"My dreams," says Sam. "Why do I get them and not Dean?"

She frowns. "You were made to see when you were very young. Horrible things. I would have taken that away from you had I known."

Dean's heart seems to freeze for a few beats. "Is that why I can remember being a baby and Sam can't? Something bad happened to him, to both of us?"

"Oh yes," the Tara says. "Sam probably has very distant memories, from when he was six months old, but they won't feel real the way yours do."

"What happened?" Sam asks.

She looks like she's about to start crying again, but she shakes her head and swallows it. "I won't tell you. You boys must make your decision. You can have your memories back. I never meant to make you unhappy by taking them. But if you take some, you must take all."

She holds her hands out again, and Dean steps forward, but Sam doesn't move. "Tell him," he whispers. "Please. I've tried. I've tried so hard. I've seen just enough of it. I don't want more. We weren't happy. We were never going to be happy."

"Never," Tara agrees sadly. She looks at Dean. "I wish it could have been different. You're good souls, you and your brother. But you'll never be at peace the way you were before."

He hangs back, thinks things over a few seconds longer. Hunting, his baby driving down an endless road, his little brother—Dean doesn't think there's a way to screw that up. There's nothing missing from that life. How they could have been unhappy, Dean can't imagine. But he doesn't really want to know, either. "I don't want him remembering when I can't do anything about it," he says. "If he's going to wake up one day and know, I need to know, too."

"No, indeed." She smiles and looks over at Sam. "The things you've already seen I cannot take away. But I can stop you from having more visions, if that is what you want."

Sam looks at him. "You mean it, Dean? You're okay with walking away from this without—?"

"I remember you," Dean says, feeling himself smile, even as it pains him. "I think that might be enough. Anyway, if you both know better than I do, who am I to argue?" He licks his lips and looks away. "I'm still not sure it's the right thing to do. But I've spent the last three days trying to do the right thing and being miserable for it. Why piss on a clean slate just out of curiosity, right?"

"That's great language to use in front of a goddess, Dean." Sam looks up at Tara and smiles as he takes her hand. "I don't want to see any more."

She glows bright once Sam makes contact with her, and when the light subsides, Sam is standing there, his hand pressed against bright gold skin. The Tara is just a statue again, frozen smile, her right hand closed tight and her left reaching out toward Sam.

"One hand taking wisdom, the other giving it," Sam says idly. He looks up at Dean and smiles. "I don't know where I read that, but I know I did."

"Yeah, well, don't strain yourself trying to remember, kid."

Sam laughs at that, gives Dean a shy kind of smile. "So, are we on the same page about—?"

"Incestuous sex?" Dean asks. Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean throws an arm over his shoulder. "C'mon, Sammy. Let's go seek enlightenment."

"My name's Sam," Sam tells him, shoving him in the side. That's one line Sam doesn't forget. Dean hopes he never will.

**The End.**


End file.
